


Always Means Excitement

by Freakierthanthou



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre is my favorite, Enjolras is confused about feelings, Fluff, God damn it Courfeyrac, Grantaire has all the hobbies, Humor, Jehan has a million pets, M/M, Piningjolras, drinking shenanigans, just to make the fluff fluffier, lil bit of angst, relationships- how do????, some mild background Courfeyrac/OC in case that bothers you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:06:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freakierthanthou/pseuds/Freakierthanthou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras does not like Grantaire. Grantaire is drunk. Grantaire is loud. Grantaire is kind of an asshole. Enjolras tolerates him because his friends inexplicably like him, but he does not like him. </p>
<p>Until Courfeyrac manages to burn down their apartment and they temporarily move in with Combeferre... whose roommate, it seems, is Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off a prompt from the Kink Meme, asking for Enjolras being forced to live with Grantaire and falling in love with him. That's it, that's the plot. 
> 
> I'm sorry for everything.

Enjolras was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain that this was entirely Courfeyrac's fault. 

He was right.

He had come back from the library at two in the morning, blessing their wonderful institution for having libraries that stayed open so late and cursing the fact that the library closed at all, when he heard sirens.

Living downtown, he heard sirens fairly often, and didn't usually spare them a second thought. He'd always been a city boy, and the sounds of the firemen or the police or even an ambulance were the background noise of his life. Some of the others, like Joly, who grew up in a really rural area, weren't nearly as used to them, and jumped every time they heard one, like they thought it was clearly for them. 

This time, they would have been right.

Enjolras stopped dead when he realized that the firetruck was outside his apartment building. Then he broke into a run. 

“Courfeyrac!” he called. His roommate would have been home much earlier than him, and knowing Courfeyrac, he had probably either been very close to the start of the fire at the beginning, either because he'd started it himself or he'd egged someone else on, or he'd gotten really close to it later because he was stupid and had a hero complex and _oh god_ Enjolras had no idea what he'd do without him. 

But before he had to decide between explaining himself and fighting past the barricade of firemen, he saw Courfeyrac, in a neon green mesh top, waving at him from across the sidewalk. 

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras repeated, in an entirely different tone. 

His roommate bounced happily, and opened his mouth as soon as Enjolras was within hearing distance. “Hey Enjolras. Guess what I did tonight?”

“What did you do?” Enjolras demanded.

“It stars with 'f' and ends with 'k', and it always means excitement.” 

The girl who was hanging off his side and looking far too pleased with herself (and, like the sirens, beautiful people of all genders clinging to Courfeyrac was kind of the background noise of Enjolras's life), grinned even wider. 

“I am going to punch you in the face,” Enjolras said. 

“Firetruck!” Courfeyrac cried.

Enjolras punched him in the face.

*

Because it was two in the morning, and neither of them had much in the way of money on them, they wound up going to a cafe while they waited for any of their friends to text Enjolras back. He had little hope that his mass text would get any responses at such an ungodly hour, but at least he was trying. 

Courfeyrac was nursing a coffee and a swelling bruise on his cheek, for which the motherly waitress had got him an ice pack, before spending the next twenty minutes fussing over him. Enjolras wisely held his tongue. 

As it turns out, Courfeyrac had gone out clubbing with some of “the guys”. Enjolras did not ask which guys those were, because he didn't want to know which of his friends he'd have to hate for the forseeable future. Along the way, they'd met a girl (“Callie,” he sighed dreamily), and she and Courfeyrac had wound up going home together. 

“Skip the details.”

“But you love details!”

“Not this kind of detail.”

Courfeyrac and Callie had done non- specific, wonderful things to and with each other, before they had drunkenly decided to celebrate the fireworks in bed with some actual fireworks.

(“Also starts with f, ends with k, and always means excitement.” 

“ends with 's'.”

“You're no fun. Firework, then.)

True to form, Courfeyrac had only set off one. And he had been careful. He'd done it on the balcony. 

Their apartment complex was built so that their balcony overlooked not the open road below them, but the courtyard in the center of the building, shared by all residents. The courtyard, as most communal spaces are, was filled with trash and other sources of kindling. 

“At least no one was hurt!” Courfeyrac insisted.

It was true, Courfeyrac knew all their neighbors well enough to know exactly who was home, and he had helped the firefighters make sure that everyone was out safely before he'd gone back to being his usual, exuberant self. 

Enjolras was only slightly less inclined to hit him at this. 

His phone went off just as Courfeyrac finished his story, otherwise the temptation might have been too great. 

The message was from Combeferre, and Enjolras clicked to view the text with more than a little glee. If it had to be anyone they were stuck with, he would prefer it be Combeferre. The two of them had lived together for a brief period at the beginning of college, before they had realized that it was seriously unhealthy and lead to them having no social interaction besides each other.

Enjolras didn't see the problem in that, but Courfeyrac liked to say that he couldn't just leave them to go be intense at each other and study at odd hours of the night. 

He probably wouldn't have given in to their friends' insistance that they find new roommates, except for the time that he realized he'd been eating cream cheese on ramen noodles for every meal for three days, since neither of them could actually be bothered to keep their fridge stocked. At that point, he accepted the intervention with grace and moved in with Courfeyrac when their lease was up. 

“ _CF's sleeping, dunno why I'm not, but we have multiple couches and I don't think he'd mind. Don't worry about getting in, I'm probably going to be up for the rest of the night. -R_ ”

Enjolras looked up. “Do we know anyone whose name starts with the letter 'R'?” he asked.

“We know someone whose name _is_ R, but I don't know about initials,” said Courfeyrac. “Do we have a place to stay? Let me see.”

“Someone calling themselves 'R' texted me from Combeferre's phone and said we could stay with him,” said Enjolras, holding the phone away from Courfeyrac with practiced ease. “And you know I'd go for it, except I'm almost worried that Combeferre's been kidnapped, or someone stole his phone.” 

“Or it's his roommate,” Courfeyrac replied. 

“R for roommate?”

“R for _Grantaire_ , you dumbass, give me the phone.” 

Enjolras let Courfeyrac have it, and ignored him while he typed out a reply. “Grantaire? Is he staying with Combeferre or something?” 

The sudden thought that they were sleeping together -Combeferre was straight, but stranger things have happened- occurred to him. He wasn't one to judge his friends on their choice of partners, but Grantaire was possibly the most irritating addition to their group, and any relationship that lead to him sticking around longer was a relationship that Enjolras did not want to encourage. 

“He's Combeferre's roommate, Enjolras, seriously, they've been living together for months. Remember that night in the Corinth when he was saying he didn't have a place to live and Combeferre had a spare bedroom and they went through all that roommate negotiation stuff before we even left the bar?” 

“Chances are, I wasn't paying attention,” said Enjolras. 

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Well, we're living with Combeferre and Grantaire, at least until we find a new place. And with Aire and I there to take care of you, you won't return to your old bad habits of being a pair of disgusting hermits.” 

“Hermits aren't disgusting.” 

“I'm sure some of them are. But I was more referring to the things you two called food.” 

Enjolras found that he couldn't argue with that, so with more reluctance than he let on, he paid their bill, picked up his backpack, and headed off to Combeferre's house.


	2. Chapter 2

Combeferre rented a small house from an elderly couple. It was a little farther from the university than he would have liked, and the garden was completely overrun with ivy, but it was a nice place. There were two bedrooms, one bathroom right in between them, and a small kitchen. The majority of the house was the expansive living room, with two couches in an 'l' shape, a small collection of folding chairs gathered around an old trunk that he used as a game table, and a large TV. 

Their movie nights or game nights were often at Combeferre's house, just because of how much space they'd had. Enjolras hadn't really noticed Grantaire getting there before him, but he tried not to pay attention to Grantaire. Whenever he did, the other man would pick a fight, his misshapen face breaking into a self- satisfied grin. 

Now Grantaire let them in through the front door, greeting Courfeyrac with a friendly hug, and ignoring Enjolras for the most part. He stopped just short of actually slamming the door in his face, which was nice of him, Enjolras supposed. 

“So what the fuck happened?” Grantaire asked, once they'd gotten their greetings out of the way. 

Courfeyrac laughed, far too loudly for the hour and the fact that Combeferre was still apparently asleep, and launched into a recounting of the tale, much more detailed and exuberant than he had shared with Enjolras. 

“Yeah, but did you get her number?” Grantaire asked. 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Courfeyrac said. “That girl was _wild_. And she's studying microbiology! Seriously, smart _and_ totally crazy? That's my type of girl.” 

Grantaire whistled. “Does she have a sister?”

Enjolras was fully prepared to pass out on the couch. In fact, he would probably be asleep right now, if it weren't for the loud conversation that was going on right next to him. He glared at the two of them, but neither man seemed to take much notice of him at all.

Huffing out a sigh, Enjolras left his pack in the living room and stormed off. 

The door to Combeferre's bedroom was unlocked, as it always was, and Enjolras opened it as quietly as he could. On the bed, Combeferre raised his head, blinking sleepily in the light coming in from the hallway. 

“'Jolras?” he muttered. “What's going on?” 

Enjolras felt suddenly like a child waking his parents up to tell them about a nightmare. Or like he imagined such a child would feel, he had no memory of ever having done such a thing. “Courfeyrac burned down our apartment,” he said. “He and Grantaire are _bonding_ in the living room.” 

“How terrible of them,” Combeferre muttered. He edged over to one side of the bed, allowing Enjolras to climb in with him. 

On some level, Enjolras supposed that he should be a little embarrassed, crawling into his best friend's bed like this, but he was tired, and Combeferre was warm, and they'd never really had boundaries the way other friends would. Most straight men, when seeing their gay best friend climb under the covers, wouldn't tug him closer, but Combeferre was different. 

“Is Grantaire really your roommate?” Enjolras asked quietly, his face pillowed against Combeferre's chest. 

“You're just now figuring that out?” Combeferre asked. His voice was teasing, but not cruel. “Yes, he lives here. He's not a bad roommate. He's quiet, and he pays his rent on time.” 

“Sorry we're invading your house.” 

Combeferre tugged him a little closer. “I like having you here. Now go to sleep.” 

*

Whoever said that things always look better in the morning was lying. In the morning, they got the news that all of their possessions were officially gone. Courfeyrac was being held responsible for the damages, which was to be expected, but he was also coughing more than Combeferre was comfortable with, so after breakfast, the two of them drove to the hospital, Courfeyrac protesting all the way. 

This left Enjolras home alone with Grantaire. In _Grantaire's_ home. 

“Thank you for letting us stay here,” Enjolras said, because he may not like the guy, but his parents hadn't raised him in a barn. 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “It's fine. You and Combeferre are so close I almost feel like this is more your house than it is mine.” 

It occurred to Enjolras that Grantaire shouldn't feel like that, that everyone should feel at home somewhere, but he brushed that thought away, because Grantaire probably wouldn't appreciate him getting all 'ranty', as Courfeyrac liked to call it. 

So instead he asked “What were you doing up at 2am last night?” 

“I think I could argue that it was more 'this morning,'” Grantaire said. “Or say the same for you, but I imagine you were woken up by fire alarms. Nothing so dramatic for me, I'm afraid. Morpheus has released me from his grasp, the fiend, likely punishment for some crime I don't remember committing. Or he's just a fickle bastard, which is starting to seem more and more likely.”

“What?” 

Grantaire shrugged. “I have insomnia. It comes and goes, you know? So some nights I'm fine, some nights I don't sleep at all and I can't figure out why.” 

“Oh.” On an impulse, Enjolras blurted, “I was at the library.” 

“What?” 

“The library.” Enjolras repeated. “I was at the library until it closed at two, and then I went home, and by that point, it was already on fire.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“No, that's not what I meant.” Enjolras waved his pity off with an easy hand. “I just meant- sometimes I can't sleep either. So I know how it is.” 

“Oh.” Grantaire smiled at him, just a slight twitch of his thin lips, but it occurred to Enjolras that this was the first time he'd ever seen that smile directed his way. “I was kind of worried that you would just give me some self- righteous recommendations of why I can't sleep. Some lady at the bus stop told me there were electromagnetic waves coming out of my cell phone, and that was the cause of all my problems.” 

Enjolras wondered briefly why a lady at the bus stop knew all about Grantaire's problems, and here he was, not exactly friends but at least a member of the group Grantaire had sort of inserted himself into, and he didn't even know where he was living until last night.


	3. Chapter 3

The first day or so at Combeferre and Grantaire's house passed without much incident. Enjolras spent much of the time on the phone with the insurance companies, and with different people or groups that had to know about his temporary change of address. As it turned out, having your apartment burn down was a headache for more reasons than he'd ever thought. 

Courfeyrac was in much of the same position, it seemed, and once he got back from the hospital with some burn cream and a clean bill of health, he and Enjolras spent much of the day commiserating over how much they had to do. Well, Courfeyrac commiserated and Enjolras glared, because he was still a little annoyed at his roommate for burning down their apartment. 

Combeferre went to work for a few hours and came home with groceries, of a far more complex nature than Enjolras had ever seen him with. 

“Did you learn how to cook all of a sudden?” Enjolras asked. 

“Grantaire,” Combeferre answered, as if this explained everything.

The man in question poked his head out of his bedroom, where he'd been holed up for the past few hours. “Did someone take my name in vain?”

Courfeyrac bounded over to him. “Are you cooking us dinner? Please?”

“Yeah, yeah, don't get too excited about it,” Grantaire said. “I'm no Gordon Ramsey, mostly because I'm not British and I don't- well, no, I swear about as much. Possibly more. Combeferre, do I swear more than Gordon Ramsey?” 

“Maybe,” Combeferre said, seemingly unfazed by the abrupt shift in topic. “I'll put the groceries away, it's a little early to eat.” 

“Where did you learn to cook?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire shrugged. “Oh, you know. You live alone long enough, you learn how to take care of yourself. At least the basics, you know?” 

Enjolras didn't know, but he didn't say anything about it. 

“I don't think he does,” Courfeyrac supplied. “When he and Combeferre lived together, I once saw him eating cheerios dipped in soy sauce. Apparently he couldn't figure out how to make cereal.” 

“That's not true!” Enjolras protested. “We were out of milk, and the cereal was dry on its own.” 

“It's supposed to be dry.” 

“Well, I didn't like it.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Well, I can't promise I'm as creative as you are when it comes to my culinary adventures, but if you want, I could teach you how to cook while you're here.” 

“You'd do that?” Enjolras asked. 

“Sure, why not?” Grantaire looked genuinely surprised that anyone would doubt his offer. “I taught my sister's kids and what's probably half of their middle school class. At this rate, I might as well quit my day job and open a culinary school.”

“You'd be good at it,” Combeferre commented, but he turned around to continue unloading groceries into the refrigerator, leaving Enjolras to wonder just how high his best friend's opinion of Grantaire was. What was he missing?

The cooking lesson started at 4pm sharp, when Grantaire crossed through the living room on his way to the kitchen and thumped Enjolras on his shoulder. 

“We're starting, if you want to help,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen as Enjolras scrambled to get up and follow him. 

“What are we making?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire was peering into the fridge, but he leaned around the door as Enjolras came in, his face alight. “I'm thinking curry,” he said. “Combeferre got some chicken, and I know I have the right spices. Check the bottom of the pantry, would you? If we have yeast, I want to make naan.” 

They did have yeast, although Grantaire had to go look for it after Enjolras overlooked the small, squat bottle three times. They discovered that Enjolras was extremely precise with his measurements of the ingredients, while Grantaire tended to just dump things in with no clear recipe, although he did humor Enjolras and tell him how much of each ingredient to get. 

Enjolras was banned from mixing when he wound up splattered with dough. Grantaire could only sigh and shake his head as he took the bowl and spoon and started to stir much more slowly. Somehow he still finished sooner than Enjolras would have.

Despite Enjolras's utter failure at cooking, the meal did turn out delicious. Grantaire laughed at him, but his broad grin was so good- natured that Enjolras couldn't even bring himself to be annoyed when Courfeyrac asked Combeferre if they could trade roommates. 

Except at Courfeyrac. He was still annoyed at Courfeyrac. 

“Are you both going back to school on Monday?” Combeferre asked them. 

“Absolutely not,” said Courfeyrac. “I've suffered a trauma.” 

Enjolras glared at him. “We're going,” he said. “I'm going to bus into town tomorrow to replace my stuff. I saved everything for school, but it would be nice to have some clothes besides what I've left here.” 

“I can give you a ride,” Grantaire said. “I have a ballroom class in the afternoon, and I was meaning to run some errands anyway. I could drop you at the mall and we can meet up whenever we're both done?” 

“You do ballroom?” Courfeyrac voiced Enjolras's thoughts. “Like, the dance? What, to pick up chicks, or-?”

“Nah, it's actually really cool.” Grantaire punctuated his words with a gesture from his fork. “I mean, normally I'm more a fast- and- furious kind of guy when it comes to dancing, you know, breakdancing, pop and lock, that sort of stuff. I did a lot of hip hop for a while, then I took up ballroom when I blew out my knee because I thought it would be easier. Haven't been proven wrong that spectacularly in a while, but I keep going after I got better just for kicks. It's pretty pattern- heavy, very meticulous, but you can also get pretty creative with it, and the people are super cool.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras blurted. “For the offer, I mean. A ride would be wonderful.”

Grantaire broke out in that grin again, the same one that lit up his face when he was cooking or talking about his dance class. “No problem.”

*

Enjolras finished shopping early. He didn't need much in the way of clothes, and all his textbooks, the worst thing he could have lost had been in his backpack at the time. The rest, anything he would have worried about, was in his office at the ABC building. 

He didn't own much, just the basics of what he needed, and he'd be getting by with much less than usual for the duration of his stay at Combeferre and Grantaire's. 

Speaking of Grantaire, he didn't answer the quick text Enjolras sent him letting him know that he was done, so Enjolras wandered back towards where they had parked, bags in hand. 

Enjolras could see someone moving inside Grantaire's car, so he picked up the pace, stepping around an old SUV so that he could see in through the window. 

Grantaire was in the back seat, his head thrust against the window. It took Enjolras a minute to make out a blond head bobbing in the other man's lap, but after that, he didn't move back as soon as he should have. 

He could see from the way Grantaire twisted and jerked that he was coming, his hand curled tight in the stranger's hair. 

Enjolras lurked there for a while, just out of sight, as more noises came from the car, maneuvering, maybe Grantaire getting his partner off. He wondered how those rough hands would feel holding his hips tight enough to bruise, or tangled in his own hair, pulling maybe a bit too hard, as Grantaire's cock leaned onto his tongue. 

He stepped into view once he saw the blond- a man, he noticed- leaving. Grantaire spotted him and grinned. He was a little sweaty, his hair rumpled, and his face flushed. 

“Ready to go?” 

“Whenever you are.”

As he climbed into the passenger seat opposite Grantaire, he fought to pretend he hadn't seen anything, didn't notice the smell of sweat and sex that hadn't been there this morning. He was glad his pants were loose enough that he he didn't have to shift too much to hide how hard he was.


	4. Chapter 4

Enjolras spent most of that evening lying on the couch, finishing his last bits of reading before class the next day, but mostly looking for a new apartment. Rather spitefully, he included one-bedroom apartments in his search, though he admitted that he wasn't looking too hard at them. 

Courfeyrac was on the floor next to him (Enjolras got the couch because he wasn't the one who burned down their apartment), bobbing his head to the soft strains of guitar music. Enjolras was so absorbed in what he was doing that it wasn't until he heard man start singing, sweet and soft, that he realized the music wasn't coming from Courfeyrac's laptop. 

“Do Combeferre's neighbors play guitar?” Enjolras asked. 

Courfeyrac looked up. “Hmm? No, that's Grantaire. He writes songs and plays them sometimes. I think he should play more, but hey, I'm not his mother. That would be weird.” 

Enjolras made a vague noise of agreement, although he knew that Courfeyrac wasn't expecting him to really be paying attention. He tried to go back to his reading, but instead he found himself focusing on the rises and falls of Grantaire's voice, the rhythm of his guitar, the way the music drifted through the house. 

Enjolras really wasn't a people person. For all he was convincing and charismatic, he preferred to spend his time alone. A few people, Combeferre and Courfeyrac more than anyone, had become exceptions to that rule, and Les Amis were- he was comfortable around them, the way he wasn't comfortable in any other situation. Being with them was as easy as being alone, but not as lonely. 

Somehow, Grantaire was becoming a part of that. Enjolras hadn't wanted to stay with him because Enjolras hated it when the place he lived, even if it was just temporarily, was invaded. But as the strains of music lulled him back into concentration, he didn't feel as though Grantaire was an intruder at all. He felt safe. 

The next couple of weeks settled into an easy pattern. Enjolras focused mainly on his classes and on his activism, while looking for a new apartment with Courfeyrac whenever he had spare time. 

He got used to living with Combeferre again, sharing long silences, pressed together at the shoulders while they studied or read. As much as he hated the circumstances, he was glad that he had a chance to spend more time with his old friend. 

He was glad too of Grantaire's presence. He was surprised how quickly he got used to tripping over boxing gloves, to listening to the other man's soft voice singing in the other room while he worked, and the smell of paint that seeped into his dreams. 

*

On Thursday, Courfeyrac came home and nearly sat on him. “We're having a party,” he said, once Enjolras had wrestled him off and he had sat down on the coffee table next to the couch. 

“Where?” 

“Here.” 

“It's not our house.” 

“Combeferre won't mind.” 

Enjolras sighed. “You should at least ask him first. And what about Grantaire?” 

“Grantaire agrees with me,” said Courfeyrac. “It's time for a party. Everything has sucked lately, so we need to chase it away with alcohol and friends and good times.” 

“Everything has not sucked.” 

“Enjolras.” Courfeyrac put his hands on his shoulders and stared directly into his eyes. “Our apartment burned down.” 

“That was your fault, and the global situation has been no better nor worse than it normally is. We can't be self- centered enough to say that 'everything' has sucked because we're temporarily unhoused, when so many people live in much worse situations than we do every day.” 

“There are starving kids in Africa, right?” Grantaire had come out of his room and was leaning against the back of his couch, far too into Enjolras's personal space for his comfort.

“Exactly!” Enjolras cried, trying to ignore how Grantaire smelled. 

“Uh- oh, did you fall into the trap of generalizing an entire continent?” Grantaire asked. “Come on, Enjolras, you can't reduce dozens of rich, historical cultures into an excuse for you to ignore your friend's problems, or assume that all African children are starving and doing nothing else.” 

“That's not what I said!” Enjolras could feel himself flush. “I just meant- Shut up. You're doing this on purpose.” 

“What can I say?” Grantaire grinned. “I just love winding you up.” 

There was a long pause, and Enjolras's face only got hotter as he met Grantaire's bright eyes. 

“Well,” said Courfeyrac finally. “I'm just going to go send out a mass text, if there are no more objections from our resident party- pooper, and you two can keep on flirting in private.” 

It took a moment for that to sink in, and by the time it had, Courfeyrac was already in Grantaire's room, slamming the door. 

“What- Courfeyrac!” 

“That's not what we were doing!” Enjolras shouted, but Courfeyrac only laughed from the other room and left them to stew in their own discomfort. 

He found that he couldn't meet Grantaire's eyes. 

*

As expected, Combeferre did not have any objections to the party, as long as it took place not on a school night, and no one went to the hospital. Courfeyrac dutifully made both promises, crossing his fingers behind his back for the second. 

The next evening, Enjolras found himself roped into a beer run with Grantaire.

“Why am I doing this again?” he asked. 

Grantaire put a six pack in the shopping cart, which was becoming alarmingly full. “Because you're a pushover, and because we're your friends and you love us.” 

“Lies and slander,” Enjolras muttered, stopping Grantaire from buying absinthe. 

“Aww, you love us. Tell the truth.” 

Enjolras turned away sharply enough that Grantaire had to make use of his fancy footwork to avoid being hit, but he was smiling. 

“Okay,” he said, once Grantaire had paid (Enjolras refused) and they were loading their purchases in the back of his car. “Maybe I do. But just a little, and probably out of Stockholm Syndrome or something. And Combeferre's my favorite.” 

“Objections duly noted,” Grantaire said. “I'll add them to the list.” 

“What list?” 

“The list of your objections, of course!” Grantaire slammed the door and hopped onto the back of the shopping cart, riding it down to the return area. Enjolras waited, somewhat speechless, and absolutely did not stare at his ass. 

“There isn't really a list, is there?” he asked, once they were in the car on their way home. 

Grantaire laughed. It was a good sound.

*

The party was one part the kind that Enjolras and Combeferre preferred, all their friends sprawled across the room, arguing and talking, and one part the raucous group of strangers that Grantaire and Courfeyrac were accustomed to. Enjolras found that he didn't mind this very much. 

Enjolras had staked a claim to a spot in the living room, mostly out of the bustle of things, his possessions stashed in Combeferre's room. A few of the other Amis were scattered around him, and although he would never admit it to Courfeyrac, he did feel more relaxed than he had since long before the fire. 

“So did you buy those pants I suggested?” Bahorel asked. “Since you're rehauling your wardrobe.” 

“I'm replacing it, not rehauling it,” said Enjolras, “And I do not need leather pants.” 

Grantaire choked on his drink. “Sorry,” he said, when they all looked at him. “Ignore me. Leather pants you say?” 

“No,” Enjolras said firmly. 

“Enjolras, bro.” Bahorel put an arm around his shoulders, ignoring Enjolras's glare. “The last time I gave romance advice, Joly was worried about a handsome stranger stealing his girl away. And you know what happened?” 

“He completely ignored your advice and sorted it out far better than you would have?”

“He got the girl _and_ the bald guy!” 

Bossuet laughed. “Bahorel, I'm touched. Does your girlfriend know you think I'm handsome?”

Joly, wandering over, heard just the last bit of the conversation and added, “If you try to steal my man, I'll fight you.”

“I'm quaking in my boots, doctor boy.” 

Enjolras laughed with the others, but a little while later, he had wandered off into the back yard to get a little quiet. 

He was drunker than he would like to admit, his head buzzing with it, and the group inside was threatening to start a game of Truth or Dare, and he was keen to avoid that, especially in his current state. 

He stayed out there, breathing in the night air and steadying himself against the railing of Combeferre's porch, for maybe twenty minutes before the door opened. 

“Hey.” Grantaire's voice behind him was familiar, and when had it become familiar? Enjolras was used to him arguing, but more than that, he was used to his debates and his silly voices and his singing, the loud, rowdy friendship he threw around in a shout when he was talking to Courfeyrac or Bahorel, and the soft, almost gentle caress of a voice when he spoke to Enjolras. 

“Are you okay?” 

Enjolras turned around. “I'm fine,” he said. “Sorry, I just needed a bit of fresh air.” 

“I know how it is.” Somehow, he was surprised to find that he believed Grantaire when he said that. “I love those guys, but they're a little much sometimes.” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras said. “Exactly.”

“Except without the loving us part.” 

“What?” 

Grantaire grinned. “Or, excuse me. You do love us but only out of Stockholm Syndrome, and Combeferre's your favorite? Something like that?” 

“Oh.” Enjolras had almost forgotten that he'd said that. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

Except something about that wasn't true, because the loud festival atmosphere inside he could get used to, but out here, in the quiet, with Grantaire, that was something else entirely.

“Anyway,” Grantaire said. “Most everybody's clearing out, Combeferre's sober enough to drive so they're all getting into the van and taking Marius to go declare his love for Cosette from the mountaintops.”

“What mountaintops?”

“They'll find one. Your friends are quite the determined lot.” 

“Our friends,” Enjolras corrected softly, but if Grantaire heard him, he didn't respond. “Are you going to go with them?” 

Grantaire shrugged. “Might as well,” he said. “You probably want some time alone after this week, I know you don't like being around people too much, and I don't really have anything better to do.”

“Stay,” Enjolras blurted. 

He was drunk, and this was stupid, but when Grantaire turned those sharp eyes on him, he couldn't help but continue, to say everything that was spilling out of him on the bitter breaths of alcohol and desire. 

“I'd like you to,” he said. “I like it when you're around, and I- I prefer being with you to being alone.”

He didn't have to look closely to see the broad grin breaking out across Grantaire's face.


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras woke up to light coming in through the curtains, and it took him a moment to realize that he wasn't on the couch in the living room. He was curled up on a bed, and he didn't even have to look to know that the body pressed up against his was Grantaire's. 

Grantaire. Enjolras felt a momentary panic. That cynic, the obnoxious drunk his friends inexplicably liked, the dancer and the boxer, the man with the kind eyes who fucked a blond in the back of his car while waiting for Enjolras. 

They hadn't had sex. The night came back to him in a blur, but he was clear on that point, at least. The others had gone off to do god-knows-what, and they had stayed, getting progressively drunker and talking on the kitchen floor. They had argued, but it had none of the venom of their usual clashes, and somehow they'd migrated to Grantaire's bed.

The arguments had continued there, until Grantaire drifted off to sleep, his arms around Enjolras's waist, and Enjolras couldn't bring himself to go to the couch, so he'd let himself sink into the mattress and tangle his fingers in that curly dark hair. 

Grantaire snuffled and rolled over in his sleep, pressing his nose to the crook of Enjolras's neck. Enjolras froze. 

What was he doing? Watching Grantaire sleep, pretending this was completely normal, to curl up next to him and wake up to his warm body around him. He ignored the fact that he hadn't slept this well in years. 

Slowly, careful not to wake Grantaire, Enjolras detached himself, sliding out of the bed as quietly as he could. Grantaire stirred briefly, muttered something indecipherable, and then settled back into position. Enjolras pretended to think that he looked more natural here, alone and splayed out across his sheets, than he had clinging to Enjolras. 

Courfeyrac was on the couch, snoring loudly, and Enjolras could see Feuilly and Bahorel crashed out on the floor. 

Combeferre was sitting up at the kitchen table, sipping on some coffee. He raised one thick eyebrow when he saw Enjolras come out of Grantaire's room, but all he said was “There's coffee, if you want any.” 

Of course Enjolras wanted coffee, he always did, but he nodded his thanks anyway. “It's not what you think,” he said. 

Combeferre looked at him. “It's not my job to judge you, Enjolras. You're of course free to sleep with whomever you choose.” 

“I didn't sleep with him,” Enjolras said. He blushed. “I mean, we didn't have sex. I was drunk and I didn't want to sleep on the couch. It was no different than when I sleep with you sometimes.” 

“We both know that's not quite true,” Combeferre said. He sighed. “I'm not judging you, Enjolras. You're my friend. But if there's anything you want to tell me about your feelings for Grantaire, I want you to know, that I'll keep them in absolute confidence. Understand?” 

“I don't _know_.” Enjolras groaned. “I don't even like him, but for some reason I really wanted to cuddle him last night. And it wasn't just that I was lonely and he was there, I wanted _him_. Why would I want him?”

Combeferre looked like he was about to say something, but at that moment, Grantaire's door opened and the man himself stumbled out into their view. 

“Morning sunshine,” he said, to either or both of them. “How was Marius's adventure in true love last night?” 

“Worse than expected,” Combeferre said. "Her father found out, then she found out, but somehow he made it work for him, and he's with her now."

Enjolras wasn't staring. He absolutely wasn't. He wasn't looking at the way Grantaire's hair turned wild when he had just woken up, his eyes weren't glued to the spot where his rumpled shirt was tugged down so his collarbone and a smattering of hair on his chest were peeking through. He wasn't.

“I have to go,” he blurted. “I have a class- thing, and I'm late.” 

“It's Saturday!” Grantaire shouted after him, but Enjolras was already out the door and very firmly ignoring him. 

Since he didn't actually have anything with him he could study, he went to a cafe and ordered breakfast, nursing his hangover and hating everything, especially Grantaire.

Grantaire. He had slept with Grantaire. Literally slept with, sure, and he could hear Courfeyrac's voice in his head telling him that it wasn't such a big deal, maybe it was a sign that the stick was slowly being removed from his ass. But Courfeyrac was different. Courfeyrac cuddled everyone. He sat on Joly to keep him from overdosing on caffeine, he braided Jehan's hair, he let Marius snuggle into his shirt when he was starved for affection. Enjolras barely touched anyone. 

But he had _wanted_ Grantaire. He'd wanted to touch him, to fall asleep with the other man's body warm against him. 

It seemed like the more time he spent around Grantaire, the less he knew about him. Two weeks ago, Grantaire had just been a thorn in his side, a nuisance he couldn't get rid of because his friends wanted a new drinking buddy. 

Except Grantaire wasn't just someone else's drinking buddy. He argued with Enjolras, but he was close with his sister's family, he was kind to his friends, he had a million and one hobbies and he was _good_ at them. Combeferre respected him, he cooked and sang and teased Enjolras, he stayed up all night sometimes and liked being alone. 

What had Combeferre been about to say? Enjolras huffed out a sigh at the interruption, even if the interruption was sleepy- eyed and (he would never admit this) slightly adorable.

Enough of this. He had to know if he had feelings for Grantaire. He paid his bill and left without finishing his breakfast. 

Eight in the morning saw him standing on Jehan's doorstep, shifting from foot to foot nervously as he waited for the poet to answer his incessant knocking. Jehan finally appeared, bleary- eyed and shirtless, but offering Enjolras a tired smile. 

“Enjolras,” he said. “What brings you here at this ungodly hour when I'm hungover?” 

“I need you to tell me if I'm in love with Grantaire.” Enjolras spoke urgently, but Jehan didn't seem bothered by his tone. 

“That doesn't seem like something I'd be the expert on,” Jehan said. “Are you in love with Grantaire?” 

“No!” Enjolras practically shouted. He blushed when he realized that Jehan's neighbors were staring. “I mean, I don't think I am. But Grantaire is smart, and interesting, and I think I might not hate him.” 

Jehan stood aside to let him in. “And what is it about not hating him that makes you think you might be in love with him?” he asked. “You don't hate a lot of people.”

“I don't think I'm in love with him,” Enjolras said. “Are you even listening to me?” 

“I'm trying,” Jehan said mildly. “But you're not making any sense. Tea?” 

Enjolras groaned and flopped down on Jehan's couch. “Can I stay with you until we get a new apartment?” he asked. “Please? It's confusing over at Combeferre's.” 

“You hate my pets,” Jehan replied. “And if you don't tell me what kind of tea you want, I'll make your least favorite out of spite.” 

It was true, Jehan had far too many pets for it to be considered natural. At the last time Enjolras counted, he had two giant dogs, and three cats. Several of them were wandering around now, and Enjolras tried his best not to look at them. Most animals he got along with fairly easily, but for some reason, any time he made eye contact with one of Jehan's, they would attack him. Courfeyrac said they were traumatized by being all named after various dead poets, but Courfeyrac was the reason he was in the situation in the first place, so he wasn't particularly inclined to pay attention to him. 

“Earl grey, please,” Enjolras said, because he was still dying of a lack of caffeine. “And you're not answering my question.” 

Jehan set the water to boil and sat down across from him. “I'm not qualified to tell you whether or not you're in love with someone,” he said. “How do _you_ think you feel about Grantaire?” 

“Annoyed,” Enjolras replied automatically, because he was. “He's obnoxious, and loud, and frustrating. But I like him when he's quiet, like when he sings, or holds a normal conversation. He's gorgeous when he's doing something he loves doing, like cooking or singing or even _boxing_ , he gets this look on his face like everything else has gone away.

“When he looks like that, I sort of forget that the way he looks the rest of the time even exists. He's so _cynical_ , he's crude and he doesn't believe in anything, but sometimes, when he's doing something that he does believe in, he kind of smooths out, you know? Like he forgets he's supposed to be completely awful. And I really like his stupid hair and his stupid eyes, and he's really warm, and maybe I kind of think he's cute when he sleeps.” 

Jehan blinked. “You slept with him?”

“No. Yes. Only literally.” 

This didn't seem to clear up any of Jehan's confusion, but he shrugged it off and didn't ask any further questions. “Enjolras, you have to figure out your feelings for yourself. I can't tell you what to do. But if you want my advice, I don't think you hate him.” 

Enjolras fell backwards onto his couch and hid his face in his hands. “What do I _do_?”

He heard the sounds of Jehan getting up to pour the tea, and reluctantly sat up to accept his mug. Jehan waited until he took a sip to speak again. 

“I'm not sure what you want from me here. It sounds like you're already clear on your feelings, but you're stopping yourself from going as far as you want. If you're looking for permission, you have it; you know our friends will never wish you anything but well. If you're looking for a justification to hide from your feelings, you're going to have to look elsewhere. As different as you are, I think Grantaire could be good for you. Does that help?” 

“No.” Enjolras put his mug down. “Yes. I don't know.” 

Jehan smiled at him. “You'll figure it out, Enjolras. I believe in you. Now, you look awful. Do you want to let me brush your hair?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras grumbled, because Jehan was wonderful and no one could say no to him. The poet shot him a beaming smile that made it clear that he knew that all of Enjolras's protestations were just for show, and pulled him into a tight hug.

*

Combeferre and Courfeyrac gave him a pair of looks when he returned that made it very clear that he was not getting away with the lie that he had been going to a school project, not when he returned with his hair braided and his nails painted bright pink. Although there were plenty of people who would probably like to do that to Enjolras (mostly people who thought he was _cute_ , and he was not cute) Jehan was the only one who would get away with it. 

“Feeling better?” Combeferre asked. 

Enjolras almost asked him what he'd been about to say earlier that morning, but he couldn't bring himself to care. “I'm fine,” he said instead, briskly. “I do want to work on the apartment hunt, Courfeyrac, are you about ready?” 

“Whenever you like,” Courfeyrac said. “As soon as you explain what the hell happened last night.” 

Enjolras grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, if only to have something to do with his hands. “Nothing happened last night,” he said. “I don't know why you would assume that something did.” 

“You've been acting weird all day,” said Courfeyrac. “And you came out of Grantaire's room this morning, and then you were yelling something about why did you want him, which yes, he probably heard, _I_ could hear that from my room. And now he's sulking and he called what's his bucket,” 

“Chris,” Combeferre supplied

“That's his bucket,” Courfeyrac finished. “So what the hell happened?” 

Enjolras sighed. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't think anything happened.”

“Clearly something did.” 

“Can you just drop it, Courfeyrac? Please?” 

There must have been something in his voice that made Courfeyrac back off, but he looked confused and sad as he did. “Okay. Sorry.” 

Enjolras ran his hand through his hair, forgetting about the braid. “It's not your fault,” he said. “I just-” 

He was cut off by indistinct yelling from the other room. All three of them froze, trying to hear every word at the same time that they tried not to listen. Before they could make anything out, the door banged open and the blond Enjolras remembered from the car stormed out. 

“Sorry,” he said to all of them. “I didn't mean to disrupt anything.” 

And then he was gone. 

As one, their eyes turned to Grantaire, standing in the doorway with unbuttoned jeans and rumpled hair. He looked hurt as his eyes followed the other man- Chris- but when he turned back to them, his face hardened again, and his eyes didn't move from Enjolras's.

“What happened?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire huffed. “Oh, fuck you too,” he snapped, and slammed the door. 

There was a pause. Enjolras turned helplessly to Courfeyrac and Combeferre. 

Finally, Courfeyrac spoke. “There's an apartment we could go look at today if you want to leave him alone with Combeferre. Or we can clear off, give you time to fix this. But those are your only two options.”

Enjolras looked to Combeferre, but he was nodding. 

“Courfeyrac's right, Enjolras,” he said. “You have to make this better, or step back and let Grantaire deal with it on his own.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said. He sighed. “I don't think I'm really up for apartment- hunting today, Courfeyrac. Maybe tomorrow.” 

Courfeyrac smiled at him, and Enjolras couldn't help but think that he looked a little proud. “Okay,” he said. “Come on, Ferre, let's go get brunch.” 

“Good luck,” Combeferre said. 

Arm in arm, they went off, leaving him alone with his thoughts and Grantaire's closed door.


	6. Chapter 6

“Grantaire?” Enjolras knocked softly. “Can I come in?” 

From the other side of the door, he heard a groan. “No,” Grantaire mumbled. Enjolras sighed. 

“I don't know what I did, exactly,” he said. “Can we talk? I want to fix this.” 

“There's nothing to fix,” Grantaire replied. 

“I think there is.”

The door opened. Grantaire was sleep- rumpled and red- eyed, but he was glaring fiercely at Enjolras. “Fixing something implies that there was anything there in the first place,” he said. “What do you want to fix, then?” 

Enjolras gestured helplessly between them. “This. Whatever it is that has you so upset.” Grantaire looked unimpressed, so he added, “Our relationship?” 

“Our relationship!” Grantaire cried. “We don't _have_ a relationship, Enjolras. We're not even friends. You're just the guy crashing on my couch who hates my guts, and there's nothing I can do to fix it, so I don't know why you'd even try.” 

“I don't hate you,” Enjolras said. “You're- I don't know, Grantaire, I'm sorry. You're very confusing. But I don't hate you.” 

“I'd believe you,” retorted Grantaire, “If I believed in anything.” 

Enjolras winced. He remembered, vaguely, having said that to Grantaire once, but he couldn't remember the context or what Grantaire had done to prompt that. He couldn't remember why he'd been so cruel. 

He still wasn't sure he was wrong, though. Grantaire took a special kind of joy in bringing idealists down to his level. He was very careful not to put his faith anywhere or in anyone. He didn't believe in their revolution, their cause, he didn't believe in the future they all fought for- 

But. But Grantaire could cook. But he smiled wide whenever he was making fun of himself, but a smaller, softer smile when he really meant it. But his eyes were warm when he looked at Enjolras, but he smiled that small smile more often these days. But when he was around, Enjolras didn't feel like his home had been intruded. He felt like he was home. 

“I don't hate you,” Enjolras repeated. “You frustrate me, and annoy me, you drive me crazy. You're stubborn, and loud, and rude-” 

Grantaire crossed his arms. “I know all this,” he said. “And if you think this is making me less annoyed at you, I have no idea what's going on in your head.”

“Let me finish. You're completely different from anyone I choose to keep in my life, but somehow, I have _feelings_ towards you. And maybe, once I was just annoyed at you and I hated having you around- I don't think I ever hated you, but I hated what you stood for- but that's changed. You're more than I ever thought you were and I really like you.” 

“Nice to know you don't think I'm completely useless,” Grantaire said. His voice was acrid and rough. “Look, you don't have to like me, okay? I'm not looking for your pity or anything like that, just don't- don't make me think we're friends or you're into me and then run off and change your mind. Okay? I'd rather you not be in my life at all than have to deal with that sort of bullshit.” 

Enjolras swallowed. He had never realized exactly how cruel he had been, not just when he had yelled at Grantaire months ago or called him worthless or drunk, but even last night, when he had ran away from him. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, even though he knew that wouldn't be enough. “It was never my intention to make you feel this way. I never wanted to hurt you. And I know you have no reason to forgive me, but I was freaking out. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't think about how my actions might have seemed to you.”

“Look, man, you don't owe me anything,” Grantaire said. “Just don't mess with my head, okay? That's all I ask.” 

“I can do that,” Enjolras said. “I'm sorry.” 

“And stop saying that. It's freaking me out.” 

Enjolras did not find himself with the urge to apologize again as some people might have. “Why?” 

“Because.” Grantaire waved a hand vaguely. “You're Enjolras. You don't apologize, especially not to me.”

“Grantaire-”

“Just leave it, okay?” Grantaire sighed and turned to go back to his room. “You can tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac that I've forgiven you and they can come home whenever they like. It's fine.” 

“It's really not.” Enjolras stepped into the room after him. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he remembered having been here last night, but he repressed it so Grantaire wouldn't notice. 

“Listen,” he said. “I was drunk last night, but I still had- I still knew that what I was feeling towards you had changed over the past week. And I knew it wasn't entirely platonic, either. But this morning, I woke up, and I didn't know what I wanted and I was freaking out and I didn't know what _you_ wanted. I needed to clear my head, I guess, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have left.” 

“No,” Grantaire said quietly. “You shouldn't have. But I shouldn't have let it get as far as it did.” 

Enjolras blinked. “How much do you remember from last night?” 

Suddenly, Grantaire looked supremely uncomfortable. “Not much,” he said. “But I know you were in my bed.”

“Grantaire-” 

“We slept together,” Grantaire said. “I took advantage of you.” 

“Jesus, _no_!” Enjolras clenched his fists and took a step forward, before he saw Grantaire flinch back and forced himself, with much effort, to relax. “We just slept, Grantaire. That was it.” 

“What?” 

Grantaire was staring at him now, his eyes wide, and Enjolras felt himself blush. “We cuddled,” he muttered. “We were both drunk, and I was really lonely, and we were arguing and somehow we wound up cuddling in your bed and we fell asleep.” 

“Cuddling.” Grantaire's voice was strained. “You had an epic 'run out of the house' freakout over _cuddling_.” 

“When you put it that way-” 

“Cuddling, Enjolras. Are you freaking serious? Don't let me ever get drunk and bake you cookies, I don't want to know what you'll do then.” 

“Look, I've never done that before,” Enjolras snapped. 

Grantaire shut up. His face was flushed, and he looked almost ashamed. “But you and Combeferre-” he started. 

“It's different,” Enjolras said. “Combeferre is a close friend, and we're- physically intimate much of the time, but with you, it's something else entirely. You're different, Grantaire. I've never been that close to someone when I've had romantic feelings for them.” 

“You,” Grantaire said, and then he stopped. “You,” he tried again. “Have romantic feelings? For me?”

“Yes.” 

“Like, this me?” He gestured at himself, the palm of one self- deprecating hand taking in all that he was. “Are we talking about the same person here?” 

“I think so.” Enjolras took a step closer towards him. “I rarely have feelings like that at all. It's been years since the last time I had a crush on someone. And you- you weren't what I expected. You were so, so much better than I ever thought anyone could be.”

Grantaire made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Are you serious?” he asked. 

“I'm always serious. You know that.” 

“Yeah, and it's fucking annoying,” Grantaire muttered, but there was no anger in his tone. “Look, Enjolras, it's no secret that I've been crazy about you for years.” 

“I didn't know.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Well, you'd be the only one,” he said. “But, look. Are you sure about this? Because I know I can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, and not just because I enjoy winding you up, and if you're still freaking out- look, I'm just happy that you said you didn't hate me. The fact that you _might_ have romantic feelings for me is probably enough to sustain me for months. Years, even. I don't need anything more, if you're not comfortable.” 

They were very close now. Enjolras had been advancing slowly whenever he talked, not entirely aware of what he was doing. Now they were so close that he could see the rise and fall of Grantaire's chest, the trembling in his shoulders. Another step more, and he fancied he could feel Grantaire's breath against his cheek. He found that he wanted that. 

“And what if I kissed you?” Enjolras asked. 

“Then I could die happy,” Grantaire replied, and his tone was entirely serious. “I'd tell my grandchildren about that kiss.” 

Slowly, waiting for any sign that this wasn't welcome, Enjolras cupped his hand behind Grantaire's head. Grantaire's curls were soft between his fingers, and when he pressed their lips together, Grantaire gasped into his mouth, even though he must have seen that coming. 

It was a brief kiss, chaste and tender, but still Enjolras could feel the scrape of stubble across his face, could smell Grantaire (alcohol and paint and some sort of cooking), could taste and feel him. 

They broke apart much too soon, but they stayed that close, and every tiny exhale of Grantaire's touched Enjolras's skin, caressing it and warming it. 

“Was that as good as you expected?” Enjolras asked. 

“Better.” Grantaire almost looked like he might faint. “I think I might already be dead. Or hallucinating.” 

“You're not hallucinating,” Enjolras said. “And I really hope you're not dead, because I like you alive. I make it a personal rule not to kiss dead people.” 

“Prude,” Grantaire muttered. 

Enjolras couldn't help but laugh. “Maybe,” he said. “But you still like me.” 

“That's true.” Grantaire grinned. “I do.” 

*

It was only a few more kisses before Enjolras managed to back Grantaire against the mattress. They stopped then, before they tumbled down together, and Grantaire looked at him. “Are you-?”

Enjolras kissed him again. “If you're okay with it,” he said. “I would very much like to have sex with you.” 

Grantaire made a sound that was something like a whimper. “Yes please,” he said. “God, Enjolras-”

“I've never done this before,” Enjolras admitted. “And if you ask me if I'm sure, I swear to god, I will walk away.” 

“Got it,” said Grantaire. “Not asking. Because when's the last time you weren't sure about something, oh that's right, you're always sure. I'm jealous. But I trust you to tell me if I do anything you don't like, okay?”

“Fair enough.” Enjolras kissed him again, just so he could taste the soft noises Grantaire made against his lips. “I want you,” he said, both because it was true and because he loved the little gasp that came out of Grantaire's mouth in response. 

He found that he loved the sounds Grantaire made, when he was unguarded and soft, loved the way Grantaire's body turned towards him, as they divested each other of their clothes. Grantaire was responsive and open, answering each of Enjolras's movements with one of his own. He took both of their cocks together in his hand, slicking them with lube, and Enjolras couldn't help but buck his hips at the friction, grind against Grantaire's body, as he pressed open- mouthed kisses to the other man's chest and shoulders. 

They rocked together, slowly at first and then faster, as Enjolras learned the taste of Grantaire's skin and the soft sounds he made as he came. 

Grantaire cleaned them off with a towel, while Enjolras helped himself to his blankets, wrapping them around his tired body, and releasing the corner only enough to let Grantaire slide in next to him. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Grantaire made a hum of assent and curled closer to Enjolras. 

“What happened with that guy? Chris?” 

When Grantaire looked up, his expression was hesitant, concerned. “We weren't dating, if that's what you think,” he said. “He's just- old classmate of mine. We hooked up occasionally.” 

“And this morning?” 

Grantaire sighed. “I was pissed off at you and lonely, so I called him. I guess he figured out that I was sleeping with him because I couldn't get over you, and he got mad. He wanted more, I didn't, he stormed off, I felt like an asshole, you showed up, I took it out on you, and then you apparently decided you liked me anyway.” 

“I already liked you,” Enjolras said. “And I'm sorry. I had no idea that your feelings for me- well, I didn't know you had feelings for me at all, but I especially didn't know that they were hurting you.” 

“My emotions are always destructive,” Grantaire said, and he didn't sound like he was joking as much as his sharp laugh would indicate. “Run while you still can.” 

Enjolras kissed him. “No.”


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras dropped down onto his couch with a breathy sigh of delight. They had moved all their things in the day before, thrown the obligatory house party (a quiet gathering, Courfeyrac was still banned from throwing parties or owning anything that produced flame), and now he was settling in. 

There was a soft sort of knocking on the door, barely a tap, but Enjolras heard it anyway. 

“It's open!”

Grantaire peeked his head through. He smiled when he saw Enjolras, the sort of wide smile that could break hearts and reach inside a person to make them feel things they'd never felt before. Enjolras smiled back. 

“Hey,” Grantaire said. “Sorry I didn't call, I was just in the area. Actually, no, I was going to call and then I freaked out about the idea of calling you, and then I went for a walk and somehow ended up here. Do you mind?” 

Enjolras saw up and held out his arms for him. “No,” he said. “I'm glad you're here.” 

Although he was glad to have a little more space- and an actual bed- he sort of missed staying with Combeferre and Grantaire. Especially Grantaire. His smell, his presence- Enjolras had gotten used to living with him, and he was glad to find that he really didn't want to escape it, not now. As much as he liked living on his own, or even just with Courfeyrac, he'd missed Grantaire. 

Since they had patched things up, they'd spent nearly every night together. Enjolras had gotten used to spending his nights with his arms around Grantaire, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. Last night, sleeping alone had been almost painful. 

“I didn't want to bother you,” Grantaire said. “Especially when you're just getting used to your new place and all.” 

But he came in anyway, and sat down where Enjolras left space for him, sliding into his open arms with ease. 

“I'm used to you, too,” Enjolras said. “And I want to be used to you being here.”

“Really?” 

Sometimes Grantaire got like this, like he couldn't quite believe that Enjolras was really here. Enjolras wasn't sure how he'd missed it, all these years. Had Grantaire always looked at him with those eyes, like he believed in nothing else but him, like Enjolras hung the stars? Had he always looked like he'd been given everything he wanted whenever Enjolras touched him? 

He was slowly getting used to it, though, and Enjolras felt the curve of a smile forming on his face as he thought of that. If his relationship with Grantaire could be like this apartment, where they slowly learned the secrets and corners of all the rooms, melted into it until it smelled like home, until they could map all the walls with their eyes closed, he would be happy. 

Now, though, he just pressed a kiss to Grantaire's curls and wrapped his arms around him a little tighter. 

“Really,” he said. “Grantaire, you know I've never dated anyone before, both out of a lack of time and a lack of interest. You're different. You're something incredibly special, and I'm not going to let you go until you realize that.” 

Grantaire snorted. “Not going to let me go in a relationship sense, or actually not letting me get up from this couch?” 

Enjolras considered that. “Both,” he decided. 

“You say that like it's a punishment.” Still, Grantaire squirmed in his arms a little until Enjolras quieted him with a hand in his hair. 

“It's not,” Enjolras said. “In fact, it might just be because I don't want to let you go.” 

“Might?” 

“Mm.” Enjolras buried his face in Grantaire's shoulder for no reason other than he could, and Grantaire smelled nice. All the mixed together scents Enjolras remembered from the first time they had stood that close, the faded smell of alcohol, the paint and sweat and a little bit of toothpaste were fading now, becoming just part of the background radiation of his life, like the sirens passing downtown, or the pop music coming from Courfeyrac's room. 

“I love you,” he said, and he could feel Grantaire freeze up at that. 

“I love you too,” Grantaire said slowly. “But-” and then he stopped. 

“But?” Enjolras prompted. 

“It's nothing.” Grantaire laughed. “I was going to ask you if you were sure. But you're always sure, we've established that.” 

“So I am.” Enjolras kissed him. “And I'm sure about you. You're easy to be sure about, Grantaire.” 

“I'm not. I'm really not. Most people don't even like me. Hell, _you_ didn't even like me until a few weeks ago.” 

“I was wrong,” Enjolras said. “And sure, you can be- abrasive, especially when people don't know you. But once I got to know you better, I realized how amazing you really are. You're an easy person to love, Grantaire, once someone knows you, and I just consider myself lucky that I figured it out before someone else did.” 

Grantaire laughed. “He considers himself lucky,” he said, to no one in particular. “Of course you do. Enjolras, are you insane? There's no one I'd pick over you. How have you not figured this out by now?” 

“I'm a little slow,” Enjolras said. He indulged himself in one more kiss, long and languid, until he could feel the tension in Grantaire's body melt away as he relaxed back into Enjolras's arms. “But you love me anyway, don't you?” 

“Obviously.” Grantaire kissed him back, and Enjolras took another moment to muse on how lucky he was, because Grantaire kissed like he did everything: with his whole self, exploring, unguarded and fierce. 

“Are you two just going to make out on the couch all day?” Courfeyrac asked. He was standing behind them, eyebrows raised, and looking far too smug for a man wearing a bright pink YOLO shirt. 

Grantaire pulled back. “No, sorry-” he started, but then Enjolras's arms were around him and tugging him back into place. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said.

Courfeyrac grinned. “I approve. I have a date with Callie the fire girl, call me if you need anything.” 

“We won't!” Enjolras shouted after him, but Courfeyrac just waved, and with Grantaire curled up at his side, arms around his waist, he couldn't bring himself to care. 

“Are you sure?” Grantaire teased. 

“I'm always sure.”

“What if the apartment burns down?” 

Enjolras growled. “Grantaire,” he said, but then Grantaire was kissing him again and he momentarily forgot what he was going to say.

He remembered eventually, but he found that he preferred kissing Grantaire to talking, so that's just what he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! I appreciate you all, and you are wonderful people for encouraging this monstrosity.


End file.
